


but you're not comin' back

by mahkent



Series: Bottom of the river [3]
Category: God of War
Genre: Gen, the sickness, unintentional child abuse aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-10 01:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahkent/pseuds/mahkent
Summary: His father is back to normal, but he cannot dissuade the fear that curls around his heart, cannot forget those chains around his throat.[hiatus]





	1. fingers scrape the sky

They have yet to scatter mother's ashes at the highest peak. The revelation that said peak is in Jötunheim, where the fingers scrape the sky, concerns Atreus. They have not figured out how to get there, not that Atreus has been thinking about it too much- the incident, as Mimir has termed it for ease of speech, has not left his mind. His father is back to normal, again, but for how long? How long will it take for the bruises and the fractured bones to heal? His broken mind?

Mimir has already explained the concept of mental distress to him, when father was hunting. Atreus understands the concept when applied to his father; no enjoyment comes from understanding this. The fact that every time he sees father, he thinks of that empty expression and those eyes filled with cold fire warped through the water that was between them. The hand like a chain around his throat, the water dragging the breath out of him. It terrifies him. The concept of going into the river makes him wheeze, but he still does- cleanliness is a necessity, in this land. 

Father has yet to say much, either. At most their conversations consist of 'boy', and 'yes, father.' Atreus shivers at the thought of actually doing anything with his father, having to be near the man who so recently almost took Atreus' life. 

Atreus can't bring himself to blame father. The sheer guilt that radiates from him is almost overwhelming, tinging the very air with agony. It makes it difficult to be even around the man- never mind the frigidness of his actions. What they used to have, the ability to simply be near each other or to help each other in battle, is gone. Atreus knows himself well enough that he can see it will take a long time to return. 

Mimir does, as well. The wisest man alive (un-alive? Undead? They've never really figured out what to call him, not that they really care) currently sits in front of him, or sits as well as a decapitated head can, that eerie glowing eye blinking kindly. The old man is very kind, and funny, a good juxtaposition to his father. Atreus almost finds it sad that he prefers the company of a head, now. 

"What's wrong, little brother?" Mimir asks, minutes after father leaves to 'hunt' again. Both of them are fairly sure he's killing Draugr to get rid of his pent up and poorly managed emotions, but they don't say anything to him about it. Even Mimir has remained fairly taciturn with father. 

Atreus stares for a few moments, frowning softly. The wiseman reads him far too well- he doesn't think he looked upset, but he's not sure that Mimir _can't_ sense emotions like Atreus does. 

"Should I be afraid of father?" He asks, eyes lowering in what he thinks is shame. Fear, maybe? He really hasn't thought too much about it, beyond panicked nightmares of rushing noise and confusing bruises and waking up choking at night, gasping for breath that just wouldn't come as quietly as possible to avoid waking up father, and after that he cast it from his mind as quickly as possible. 

The question has Mimir pondering for too long. Atreus shifts nervously, raising a hand to gently run through his hair. Finally, Mimir speaks. "Well, laddie, it's no surprise that you do. Don't make that face at me- it's very clear. Little brother, you flinch when he so much as takes a step, and even disregarding that you jump like a little kitty when he says anything. Not that he talks much, though." 

"You didn't answer the question, Mimir." It's a common occurrence when Mimir isn't knowledgeable about or comfortable with a question, avoiding an answer. The heads face makes what he's thinking very obvious, too- the shify eye (even if Atreus rarely knows where he's actually looking at), the tightened lips. It always takes a push to get the truth. 

"Well... to tell you the truth, you should be. I fully recognize he didn't intend to harm you, but that doesn't change-" a vague eye movement that Atreus has decided is Mimir's version of gesturing at him- "what happened, little brother. I trust him not to do it again, but on the other hand," Mimir laughs softly. It's always an attempt at lightening the mood, joking about his lack of a body. "I can't blame you for being scared, m'boy."

"M'not scared." Even to his own ears it sounds pathetic. Slowly, Atreus curls into the furs on his bed- father is somewhat insistent that he actually rest, and he can't really argue, not with how blood itches at the bottom of his lungs- and frowns. He is scared, he's been scared, and he wants nothing more than to be cradled in his mother's arms again. 

His mother. The frown only deepens. "I just feel bad that we haven't done what mother asked yet." For that he does truly feel bad. Mother asked them only to take her ashes to the peak (did she mean Jötunheim?) and scatter her. It didn't seem like such a long journey when they still took it, but with Baldur, Tyr's secrets, and now this... 

"I'm sure your dear mother would understand, lad." The head looks apologetic, golden eye glancing towards the bruises. Atreus, self-conscious on a good day, pulls at the fur around his neck to hide them. He's seen them in the river. The river still makes him breathe heavily, gasping for air that he can blessedly still taste, but the bruises, they're dark and hideous. The shape of his father's hands around his neck are in clear relief against his pale skin, hiding the tattooes mother gave him. 

"She'd be really angry with father." Atreus decides to say, closing his eyes and thinking of Valhalla. She didn't die in battle, did she? Father says her war was to thrive after the destruction of her people, but he isn't sure if that counts. It should, in his mind. 

"Naturally. I can't say I knew her very well, beyond legends and such, but she seems very... protective!" Mimir laughs again, something of a ho-hoh. Atreus can't help but smile crookedly in joy at the memory of his mother. 

Atreus laughs in return. It sounds shattered, to him, like the water broke him. Maybe it did? "Yeah, I guess. I was so sick, it just makes sense that she'd be like th--"

The sudden clatter at the door has them both jumping- well, Mimir gasps, he can't jump anymore- and staring. Atreus breath quickens, catching in his throat, as he realizes who it is. The heavy footsteps and the door opens suddenly revealing father, sillohueted so powerfully and so terrifyingly against the rising sun. His shoulders begin to shake without him realizing. 

Father sees all of this, though, and that same agonizing grief tinges the air. Atreus casts his eyes away in what he thinks is shame. But why is he ashamed? _He's_ the one who cant close his eyes without seeing his father above him.

"It is time we leave, Atreus." More shivers, more hesitance- he internally berates himself for being so weak. Father still sees, those amber eyes like dying coals so dismayed, so stifled. Atreus simply stands, as silent as he can be, and collects his bow, his arrows, his journal, and goes to stand at his father's side. 

They are all silent as they enter the realm portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as for the timeline: (spoilers) set after 'the magic chisel', but before you return to tyrs temple in 'behind the lock'. mimir has but one eye, atreus is sickly from the battle with magni and modi, but hasn't collapsed yet and doesn't know he's a god.


	2. gey-a ton-dia, keria tou-ranou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's too far to jump, it just has to be- he hems and haws, stepping closer to the waters edge then skittering back.

Returning to their mission is a depressing affair. Atreus remains withdrawn and quiet, and Mimir's tales and jokes barely get a chuckle out of him. Deep down Atreus knows that his distress is pointless. Father seems cold, distant as he has been since the incident; it only hurts more to see father so uncaring.

Killing draugr and hel-walkers and ogres just isn't as fun anymore, either. Atreus used to find absolute joy in battling, the rush of adrenaline making him laugh and try as hard as he could, but now... it feels empty. He feels empty. The fear is all-consuming, and even the Lake of Nine- _especially_ the Lake of Nine- makes him sick to his stomach. He's already stumbled off the boat many times once they docked just to hurl.

Still, they journey, eerily silent. Mimir's tales when they find something of note get little reaction. The spirits, the treasure maps, the secrets are ignored for the most part as Atreus trails listlessly behind his father. From his vantage point on father's hip Mimir smiles, kindly. 

The landscape they currently traverse is lush with trees and foliage, but at some places it overgrown. Father's axe makes short work of most of it. Some of it, though, Atreus has to crawl through and loosen from behind, or has to find a new path for father. He's entirely silent as he does. 

As has become the norm, his mind is consumed by thoughts of rushing water and chains around his neck. Father seems to ignore this, for the most part, but still refrains from touching Atreus or saying much of anything. The stalemate is broken only by the sounds of battle- and Atreus' quiet, tiny distressed noises when father has to lift him. He quickly learns to bite his tongue to prevent them. 

Now he cannot simply bite his tongue. In their travels they came across a river. It's wide, faster than he's really comfortable with, and as they approach elk bound away from the waters edge. The foam in the water makes his stomach churn. In fact, he can feel his breath quicken at the thought of crossing this, but he doesn't see any other way across. Father crosses it with one solid leap. Mimir stares at Atreus, concern written across his wrinkled face- Atreus casts his eyes down.

"Come, boy." Atreus simply stares at the rushing river. It's too far to jump, it just has to be- he hems and haws, stepping closer to the waters edge then skittering back. His father unsheathes his axe and stares impatiently. At the frustration deep within those amber eyes, he steps back again, this time to jump. 

Despite the usual ease with which he jumps gaps, this is just too far as he had judged. Halfway through, he realizes he cannot make it; time seems to slow as he closes his fists around nothing, as there is nothing to hold onto. Father realizes it too. Atreus sees those haunting eyes widen, father's mouth opening in a low call of _boy_ , but- but his chest tightens- his legs straighten for land that is not there- panic grips him as the rushing waters greet him, and he plunges into the depths. 

The river is deep, quick, dragging him along quickly and without pause. He can just distantly hear father shouting, and Mimir exclaiming, but then it's ripped away as he's swept away. The water is as terrifying as he's come to expect. The air burns in his lungs as he holds his breath, trying his damndest not to panic, but when he's battered against rocks on the riverbed he lets out a silenced plea to Freya to help him. 

The panic takes over. His chest tightens, he can only see father's face- so cold, and he imagines he can hear 'gey-a ton-dia, keria tou-ranou-', nonsense words that have come to mean something so ominous, as his hands scrape against the gravel of the river bottom, as his fingers are scraped raw by his clawing. It's somehow worse when he's moving. At least he knew (desperately hoped) that father would pull him up, eventually- but water never obeys the whims of men. 

Again, _again_ he cannot breathe. It isn't as bad when he's completely submerged, as there is no battling sensations of freezing cold and burning heat, but that does not change his agitation. His vision blurs with the stinging of the water- his back scrapes against the riverbed, then his head, and it's all so confusing that he can barely register what hits him or hurts him until he feels the pain.

A hand grasps the back of his collar surprisingly quickly. A quick tug brings him up to the surface, sluicing water onto the riverbank, and he looks up only to see the burning eyes of his father. Words his father speaks, but to Atreus they are nothing- he can only think of how father will force him back under with only a blank stare.

"Father- don't put me back in-" Atreus' words quickly devolve into half-formed babbling as he begins to sob, shoulders shaking and breaths getting shorter and shorter until he's gasping for air. The water in his lungs again makes him cough, and the lack of air makes him dizzy. His chest sears with the effort of getting any air in and utterly failing. Distantly, so distantly, he feels hands around his shoulders. In stark sensations he feels everything else. The blood seeping from his lips, his raw fingertips, the tears on his cheeks- then father's voice breaks through his panic. His chest feels tight, and his heart pounds like he's just tried to race Thialfi. 

"Atreus!" Those broad arms wrap around Atreus, who can only kick and wail more. Something deep within him burns- Father grunts, surprised- his hands burn like he'd doused them in the fires of Muspelheim- his screams crescendo with him raising his hands to wrap around his father's neck. They're too small to actually wrap fully, but father rears back with a roar regardless, hold loosening enough for Atreus to slip away. 

There are handprints on father's neck, light red burns from Atreus' fingers. It would surprise him if he weren't still agitated, still wheezing up blood and water. The breath in his throat stings. He sees the heat licking his arms fade away, leaving only reddened skin from the icy waters.

Father is genuinely shocked into silence. The pulsing confusion that Atreus can feel makes him look up from his hands at the marks upon his father's neck, then at the way his father's arms are still spread. 

Atreus feels like a little kid again, as he whimpers and crawls into his father's hold. Weak apologies slip from his lips as father slowly, so carefully, clutches him close. Father slowly rocks him, murmuring in that strange tongue, "Δεν θα το κάνω, γιος. Δεν θα," then catches himself and speaking something Atreus can understand. 

"I will not. I will never harm you again, Atreus- _never_." The conviction in his father's tone assures him that it is no lie. He shifts Atreus so his head lies upon the strap of father's shoulder guard, settling there and allowing Atreus to shudder and curl in his father's comforting hold. One of father's massive hands wraps around the back of Atreus' head, fingers threading through his hair and petting ever so gently. 

Soon enough, Atreus has calmed down to the sound of his father breathing, and shifts a little to indicate he wants to be let go. Father lets him go carefully- Atreus can see a hint of a smile on father's face- and they both stand. Atreus runs the back his hand over his face forcefully, sniffling. From his position on father's hip Mimir smiles again. 

"You'll catch your death." Mimir says, bobbing back and forth as father sets off again. It's only now that Atreus realizes that they are actually across the river. Evidently, though, he was pulled out of the rivers icy grasp further down stream. Before he can reply father pulls him closer, resting an impossibly warm arm on Atreus' shoulder. The warmth is comforting compared to the chill he still feels. 

"He will. We will camp soon." The golden light of the falling sun warms their backs as they set off again towards the peak of Jötunheim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'gey-a ton-dia, keria tou-ranou-' is Για τον Δία, κυρία του ουρανού; "to Zeus, lord of the skies". Phonetic because Atreus doesn't understand Greek.  
> Greek: "I will not, son. I will not."
> 
>  
> 
> Thialfi/Þjálfi is a boy in norse mythology who, while attempting to impress Skrymir (secretly Utgard-Loki, a jötunn, a different figure from Loki) manages to stand somewhat of a chance against the fastest thing in existence: Thought.


	3. his sad dying-coal eyes and her fierce falcon eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _What did you do?_ " Her voice, once so beautiful, lighting the halls of Asgard with joy, is nothing but darkness and venom.

The sight of his son collapsing is one that tears Kratos apart. 

Try as he might, he cannot look away from the grisly visage. There is little blood, no open wounds, but it hurts somehow more than anything else he's seen. The pale skin, paler than it ever has been before; the black veins sliding up his son's still bruised neck and face from his poisoned heart, his poisoned soul. Utter stillness as if his son is _dead_ \- Kratos falters, for a few seconds, when he first sees this. Until Mimir urges him onward. He must help his son, he must protect the boy he's failed to protect before. 

Even as he carries the boys- his _sons_ \- slack frame, he thinks of what the boy did for him. Despite the fear carved into every interaction they've had since the 'incident', as Mimir puts it, his son still is dying for him. The boys body couldn't handle the Spartan rage he evidently possesses, something that is of no surprise to Kratos. The surprise only comes in Atreus using it to attempt to protect his father. Kratos would weep tears of joy at the embers of care that still glow if his son wasn't beginning to shake in his arms. 

Freya's home is silent when he strides up to it. Only him yelling that Atreus is ill has her opening her door, her falcon-cape fluttering behind her. Her expression is wide-eyed and confused; only once her fierce brown eyes land upon the boy lying too small in Kratos' arm does she move. She beckons him in, exclaiming only that he has done this- but her words falter at the sight of the bruises. Hurriedly, she gathers the boy from Kratos' arms. Her blazing falcon glare is turned towards him, now. 

" _What did you do?_ " Her voice, once so beautiful, lighting the halls of Asgard with joy, is nothing but darkness and venom. Her glare is only broken to look at Atreus as she sets him down on her bed. The glare softens into a motherly sadness, something aching with grief too long kept. 

Kratos finds it hard to speak, when the fallen Vanir goddess' harsh rage is muted only to care for his son. Her wondrous magic is scooped from the bowl, gently brushed over Atreus' temples, as her lips move around incantations he does not understand. Again, her harsh gaze is raised to him. 

"We faced Mothi-"

" _Not_ that." Her hands brush over the bruises, dark imprints of hands that she is too smart to confuse for anyone else's. The black veins pulse slowly, with the beat of his son's heart, and her hands gently scoop more magic from the bowl to brush over the bruises.

Kratos is silent. A stalemate of wills is waged, for only a few moments, his sad dying-coal eyes and her fierce falcon eyes connecting. Mimir is the saving grace to the futile battle. Atreus remains dead to the world, despite the shudders wracking his body.

"Kratos had a waking nightmare, your majesty, and he... well, he attacked Atreus." Mimir is still courteous, even to the witch who would see him dead if it weren't for Atreus' wide, childish gaze. Even so her eyes widen, gaze sharpening as if she was getting ready for a slaughter she can never commit.

"No excuse! No excuse to hurt a child when you already refuse to tell him the truth!" She shrieks. The feathers of her cape flutter with the force of her emotions, settling only with her strong hands moving to rest upon Atreus' cheek. At the touch he stirs, head turning away and eyelids fluttering. As Kratos looks he sees those pulsing black veins edging further and further through his son's skin.

Kratos can feel his expression darken at her assertion, but he knows he has no ground to stand on. The boy is injured only because of how selfish he is. Freya is taking care of what he wouldn't- he releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding, eyes falling to his son that he's too afraid to touch for fear of him shattering like glass. 

"I have no excuse." As he watches, her shoulders stiffen, and her hand turns Atreus' face protectively towards herself as he groans too quietly. The harsh gaze moves towards him, then back to Atreus. 

"I need the gate-keepers heart, the one who watches the souls enter Helheim." In one sleek motion she stands. The magic glowing on her fingertips makes him wary, but still she grasps his hand and draws a rune on his palm. "Do not cross the Bridge of the Damned; your frost axe will be useless, Kratos, so you will have to find something else to battle the dead with." His name is spat like a curse. 

"Heimili! Use my boat, do what you need to do." With that, she ushers him out, and he ignores her baleful look of judgement, heading to uproot his past to heal his future.


	4. She will not forgive Kratos for harming the child.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every moment Kratos spends in Helheim, Atreus becomes sicker and sicker.

Freya has seen too much death to let this child die. He reminds her of her own darling son, Baldur, who vowed to never see her again except on the dark, accursed day that he kills her. 

Atreus was never like that. Even when she was quivering with rage at the harm of her friend, he did not falter, but he did not act as if she was a monster. He was always joyful to see her even if his father was wary, and he was kind and enjoyed her affections. It was pleasant, to see a child that did not hate her- despite his heritage he is simply full of joy. Asking to see her again, if he could, not asking too many questions as she destroyed the wicked mistletoe.

Now he lays on her bed. The dark veins still spread, and the dark bruises refuse to fade. His skin is deathly pale, his eyes shut. The only sign of life she has seen is the faint rise and fall of his chest and very occasional groans. Her magic keeps Hel at bay, keeps her from stealing the child for Helheim, but... the poison seeps through his veins yet. Even his lips show the poison in him. With one hand upon his forehead she feels the fever burning through him; with the other on his chest she can feel his heart pounding with the effort of forcing the sickness through him. 

She will not forgive Kratos for harming the child. The handprints around his neck are so dark that they seem like kohl smeared into his skin. The blood that he coughs up, though it never does wake him, the rasping breaths that makes her skin crawl with worry. She doesn't leave her grove unless pressured, but now she is hesitant to leave even her home for fear of losing Atreus. 

Freya knows she projects on the child, somewhat. He truly does remind her of Baldur, with the way he smiles and laughs, bounding around with endless joy despite his father's cruelness. In her falcon form she watches them, occasionally- his joy was only crushed by his father. Before the bruises he was exactly as he should be. Now...

Now she pulls the furs up to his chin, smoothing them gently over him. He looks so small in the bed. To be frank, she believes he is too young to be adventuring with _Kratos_ , dueling dragons and all manner of disgusting creatures. Atreus' skin shows the marks of the battles. Freya, cleanly even in her exile, has bathed Atreus as she waits for Kratos to return, and it never fails to disappoint her when she sees deep scars upon the child's skin. 

Freya believes children should be able to be children, despite her failure at allowing her son to be one. He was ever so young when she first learned of the prophecy, and only a bit older when she asked everything to refrain from harming him. The fire, the water, metals, anything that she found and thought would harm him- many things, such a great deal of things- she acquired an oath from. Except from mistletoe, curled around the oaks west of Valhalla, so small she thought it could never hurt him. Soon her magic took affect, and Baldur _wailed_. Wine, women, food, nothing would make him feel anything except hatred for his mother. 

She lost her son because of her hubris. Though Kratos is far from her favorite person, the frail boy wheezing on the bed gives her the chance to ensure no one loses a child to hubris again. 

The prospects do not look good, right now. Every moment Kratos spends in Helheim, Atreus becomes sicker and sicker. Even Freya's best magic cannot halt what is happening to him. The two sides warring within him will not stop until he dies, or he learns the truth- but it is not her place to explain the truth.

Atreus very rarely stirs, and almost never wakes in any great capacity, so she cannot even comfort him fully. The most she can do is pet his face when he whimpers against the heat burning through him. His eyes have opened but once, a fever haze glossing them over. Freya doesn’t think he can see her, nor hear her, but she looks into that confused look and smiles gently. As she would with Baldur when he had nightmares, she speaks to him softly, saying nothing but offering a kind voice. His muted panic fades like his life has, becoming but a burbling stream in his mind instead of a roaring river.

She again delicately smoothes the furs over him. He whimpers again, head turning to the side. Slowly, she stands to gather more of what will slow his sickness. A mixture of plants from her garden, burdock and yarrow and wormwood, ground together until her magic takes hold and placed into a bowl upon his chest. Once it is done she knows she must go gather more; her stocks are depleted. Kratos is taking far too long.

Her garden is beautiful as always; her Vanir magic keeps it alive, especially compared to the area around it. The plants she had just recently cut are already peeking from the ground, but she turns to the fully grown plants.

As she cuts, her mind wanders. Othin ensured she would never be accepted anywhere again, never be able to see her brother Freyr, or Hnossa, or any of them ever again. She cannot even leave Midgard- or, indeed, her grove. The world is too hostile for her to exist anywhere else, for Othin took her wings. She cannot fight; if Kratos, or even Atreus, decided to attack her she could do little but attempt to restrain them. Questioning Mimir gave her little information. The head either did not know or would not tell her anything- though, she would bet he simply does not actually know. Othin is very taciturn with information such as that. 

Absorbed in her mind, she is torn out only by the quiet wheeze of a blood-soaked breath. After it there’s a louder cough, a hack- then she stands quickly. The plants in her grasp are dropped upon the table, forgotten already, as she rushes to the child's side. His chest heaves again, and she turns him onto his side so he doesn’t drown in his own blood. 

Freya crouches next to him, eyes focused only upon his face. His skin is gray, eyes wide and seeing nothing. She puts one now-soft hand on his cheek, thumb brushing away the tears in his eyes. He doesn’t understand, she knows. To him it is simply an eternity of pain as his father takes his own sweet time to gather the heart needed. Hesitantly, Freya begins to sing- something she has not done in some time, not since she was cast from her home- an old Vanir lullaby. She sung it often to Baldur before she cursed him, but the magic interwoven into it calms the child with ease. His eyelids flutter over his pale wolf-eyes, gaze finally landing on Freya.

The coughing dies down as he focuses on her. His lips, stained red, curl into a vague smile. Freya smiles back, though she knows hers is tinged with sadness. Whatever he tries to say comes out as nonsense, and she hushes him to prevent his chest from tightening and locking up again. Slowly, his breaths level out, and his eyelids flutter shut. 

Freya finds herself relieved as she presses a hand to his breastbone and feels his heart beating still. Slowly, she pulls herself away from the child, moving to prepare more of the herbs. She knows Kratos will take too long. 

The child is cursed to suffer further.


	5. I swear to god, you're a mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The boy has been cursed._

Atreus wakes slowly. His mouth feels dry, but wet at the same time, and his muscles feels like they're made of leather strings. They're too stiff for him to move, but his ears begin to pick up his father's low voice. _The boy has been cursed._

For a moment he thinks he's dreaming. Like when he heard Freya singing something haunting and ancient in a tongue he didn't understand, but it's something bad, instead. He slowly opens his eyes- it feels so difficult, like he's frozen- to find Freya and father standing over him, both concerned. He doesn't think before he stands, despite his aching body, despite his stumbling and both adults reaching out to support him. 

Atreus thinks some time has passed. His clothes feel freshly washed, and so does he. Freya seems much more ragged than she usually does, as if she had been staying up late. The house looks simultaneously tidy and messy. Herbs he can't identify are hanging to dry and remain strewn about on tables, while his armor and bow sit neatly on a table. 

Father stands nearby. Atreus can sense cold and death radiating from him. The death part isn't anything new, all things told, but the cold... it feels like despair. He looks up suspiciously. Father's brows are lowered, eyes wider, something that Atreus has taken to be a concerned expression. Freya's is concerned as well in her own way, mouth just barely open and eyes very wide. They're looking at him like he's a baby bird with a broken wing. He hates it.

"I'm _not_ cursed." He spits, not thinking about how he should really save this for when he's alone with father. 

"Atreus..." Freya begins, mouth closing when she sees the rage on Atreus' face. He's hurt, something he won't admit to father- he really felt like they were getting somewhere, in their relationship, but if father thinks he's just a curse then it's really not progressed at all. 

"I do not believe you are." Father states, quietly. Atreus' chest aches, he's still exhausted even though he thinks he's been asleep for a while, and father is _lying_ to him. The frustration coiled in his chest only festers further. 

"You just said I was! I'm- I'm not what you wanted, I get it- but- now I know the _truth_ -" Too quickly, his father grabs his shoulders. He can't help but flinch, eyes shutting before he remembers he shouldn’t let his guard down around a threat, and fathers grip loosens. 

“Atreus. Listen to me.” His father’s eyes shift to look at Freya, heartbreakingly sad. Some form of communication happens, he thinks-- then father looks back at him. The hands around his shoulders shift to hold him gentler.

“I will tell you the truth, Atreus.” Father mulls over his words, lowering his head with an aura of shame. Atreus stills himself. The truth? He doesn’t really want to trust father, but… the truth is what matters, to him.

“I am a god, from a land far from here. I was born a god, and came to these shores to shed that past- but I could not.” A pause, and he looks deep into his sons eyes, gaze so intense that Atreus wants to look away. “ _You_ , are a god, boy.”

“Oh.” Is all Atreus can say. Rage bubbles up in his chest, again- father didn’t tell him. Still, father seems so ashamed, maybe he had a good reason... but Atreus can’t think of one right now. His face scrunches in disbelief. Father stares at him, brows furrowed, waiting.

Waiting for Atreus to respond. All he can think of is how betrayed he feels, that father kept such a big secret from him- and father hates gods! Does he hate Atreus, is that why he’s cursed?! 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Despite all of his rage, Atreus simply feels tired. Exhaustion has crept through his bones and taken grip upon his entire person. The rage is pushed to the back of his mind for later, because he knows he won’t be able to let this go very quickly.

“I… believed it would cause issues.” 

“ _Issues_? You’ve been lying my whole life! The- the sickness? Does that happen for every god, or just the bastard child of a _bastard_?!” He cries, finally snapping. He’s frustrated, scared- what does this mean for him? If he’s a god, does that mean he’s been following rules he doesn’t have to? Is father right when he says all gods are bad?

Father is silent. Without thinking fully, Atreus wrenches his shoulders out of father's grasp, and takes a step towards the door. His knees give out. Honestly, he really isn't surprised, but it still manages to shock him; he's only shocked further when two sets of hands grab his arms, one soft and gentle, the other calloused and gripping too hard. 

"Don't touch me! You- you liars! Freya probably knew, Mimir too!" The agitation he's felt for a while just keeps amplifying itself, an endless feedback loop fed by his inability to make them let go of him. Father's hand shifts to support Atreus' chest, making him snort. 

"Boy. Calm yourself." Freya's hand slides off his arm, while father's other hand again grasps him. He's spun around- his head aches at that- and father's hold is so much stronger, this time. Freya hovers behind him, concern written upon her face.

"No! You- you said I was cursed, and you've been lying this whole time! Was any of it real?!" Any form of struggling is entirely futile, yet Atreus can't help himself. It hurts, he's scared of father and he's been _living a lie_. 

Father doesn't reply, silent again. Atreus snorts. Wrenching himself away isn't possible now, and storming away when he's just in his tunic and pants would be ill advised. His armor, fur vest and bow are set across the room. It'd be too difficult and too taxing on his still weak body to run and get them then run and leave- and he can't even row the boat well. 

Father's hands lifting drag his attention out of his half-assed planning. "Boy-" is all father grunts before Atreus smacks the large hand hovering away, moving stiffly towards his armor.

"Whatever. Let's just go." Atreus spits. Undoubtedly his face is scrunched into a childish expression of brattiness. He just doesn't care, right now, not when father is acting like he has no right to be upset. Freya breezes over to assist him with getting the armor on- he assumes she took it off of him in the first place. 

Before they leave, Atreus softens and gives Freya a hug. He's grown to like her a lot more than he expected- even if she's a liar too. Everyone's been lying to him, but he can find stuff out on his own without having to fight with father over it. Eventually he'll find the truth about himself, right?

Right?


	6. How come your only hope turns to despair?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Stop!_ " Atreus' voice echoes through the forest. The outright terror in it has Kratos moving faster, slashing through the dense undergrowth to find his son-
> 
> (warning for allusions to pedophilia and attempted rape.)

Although the boy is awake, he is not himself. Kratos supposes payback for the fear Atreus felt, when he was the Ghost; it still remains an annoyance. The boy no longer listens to commands, he's snappy and rude, and it's somewhat concerning how little care he takes to remain safe. What is even more concerning is that Atreus' fear of his father has turned into outright hatred for his father.

Kratos cannot find it in his heart to blame Atreus. Even after a while of them traveling, the bruise is still dark and evidently painful. He can see his son wince when moving his head too suddenly, or trying to hide it when they pass by Brok or Sindri. The dwarves have already noticed, but a dark glare from Kratos stopped them from asking.

The hatred isn't really a notable issue until he loses Atreus. Calling for him is pointless, as there are no calls in return. Kratos trained the boy too well in stealth, and the boys size works to his advantage in the thick foliage, being able to slide through it without leaving a trail. Kratos is concerned, naturally- the boy may be a cocky god, but he is just a boy, and one thinking poorly at best.

"Now how in the nine realms do you lose an entire child? Is it _that_ easy?" Kratos can hear the concern in Mimir's thick brogue. Even so, he swats at the head hanging on his hip. 

"It would be just as easy to lose you, head."

"Point taken. Still..." The head hums, evidently trying to chose his words carefully. Kratos keeps moving through the undergrowth methodically, looking for possible crannies Atreus could have escaped through. "I'll admit to growing attached to the lad. If he got hurt-"

"It will be his own fault, now." Kratos rumbles in reply. His patience has grown paper-thin when dealing with his son, recently. The boy is aggressive and taking too many risks. Overall he's become rather insufferable.

"I know, I know, but it won't really help anything. He's not in his right mind and you know it- what will he take on? Ogre? A Dauthi? Perhaps even Baldur?" 

Kratos grunts in response. The head does have a point, but he is sure in his son's ability to escape situations that he gets himself into. Even if he is illogical now, he will back out when he cannot win; this Kratos has faith in. 

"You _can't_ tell me you aren't _concerned!_ He's a child, godhood be damned, brother- you need to talk to him!" Mimir is insistent, voice rising with his agitation. 

Kratos only huffs in reply. Mimir does have a point, as he usually always does, but Kratos finds it difficult to actually speak to his son. They simply aren't very close in that way, something that is most likely Kratos' fault. Never mind the fact that Kratos' guilt for everything, the sickness and the bruises, prevents him from bringing up how he hurt Atreus.

Now is not the time to think about the past, though, not when he spots small footprints through a muddy patch of ground. Small scrapes trail up the rock wall next to the footprints- Atreus is too short to heft himself up easily, but Kratos leaps up with ease, looking around. 

There's no one there. More footprints track towards the treeline, but behind them are bigger footprints. Massive, actually; Kratos hums and heads forward. When Mimir sees them, he makes a noise of surprise.

"Come _here_ -" A rough voice growls in the distance. An arrow thuds, then a boy screams, the sound of the wolves cut off too quickly- i>urf hal- the taste of rain is in the air, despite the clear skies. Mothi.

Kratos throws himself into the task of finding his son. Speed is not typically his forte, but the sounds indicate danger that he is sure Atreus cannot handle. 

" _Stop!_ " Atreus' voice echoes through the forest. The outright terror in it has Kratos moving even faster, slashing through the dense undergrowth to find his son-

Kratos bursts through the brambles to find Atreus sprawled upon the ground. Mothi leans over him, one hand pressing down on his wrists and one hand sliding under the boys tunic, leaning closer and closer, lips-

He can see tears on his son's face. A fight seems to have broken out, as Atreus has new cuts and Mothi is bleeding profusely from a gash on his nose. His hand is crawling up further and Mothi reaches for Atreus' belt-

Atreus screams, loud and stronger than Kratos has heard before. His hands slam on the stones of the bridge on either side of him; in almost slow motion Kratos sees the stone crumble and crack, then give completely as the bridge collapses. 

The dust rising from the destruction chokes him, obscured his vision. Kratos jumps down. He fears he is too late, until he sees Mothi under the rubble, legs crushed. Atreus stands disheveled and quivering above him. An arrow is nocked upon his bow, string taught. His son's face is streaking with more and more tears, silent agony of horror, an inability to understand why Mothi attempted that. 

Mothi's beard and hair are tangled, skin dirty from lack of care. More blood oozes from various wounds, and he stares up at Atreus with an expression that Kratos despises- disgusting, sleazy.

"You want it-" A quiet _thwick_ , a splatter of blood as the arrow punches clean through Mothi's skull, the fletching catching in his forehead. Atreus shakes harder. The bow is dropped with a clatter, and he steps back, arms wrapping around himself. Kratos intentionally makes his footsteps a bit louder than usual, to warn the boy that he's there.

"Don't _touch me_!" The boy cries, anticipating something that Kratos was not going to do. From his experiences in Sparta he knows that you let people harmed in this way come to you, like a frightened animal, instead of scaring them away by being forceful.

"Atreus-"

Atreus turns angrily towards him. Tears streak down his face, his fists are clenched, but the shaking as he tries not to sob outright make him seem so young. Kratos draws his hand back, leaving it hovering if Atreus wants his touch.

"I don't want to be a god anymore! If all gods are liars or- or-" A jerky gesture towards the mutilated corpse. The tiniest glance at the body has Atreus sniffling, tears coming stronger- Kratos forgets too often that his son is but a child, with childish emotions and needs- and Kratos wants nothing more than to hold his son. The boy's eyes are wild, terrified.

"You... _we_ do not have to be like them." The words feel weak. Undoubtedly his son is thinking that the statement is false because every god is like that, an endless pattern that never ceases to repeat with any god alive.

"Then why are they like that?!" Atreus is borderline hysterical, not considering what Kratos says. It pains Kratos to see that Atreus is hurt this way- to see that his newfound pride in his godhood could be destroyed by two dirty hands. 

"Because they are monsters." Kratos rumbles. Every god he has known has been one, including himself before he came to these lands. Atreus, evidently, has only heard stories of them, seen none of the horrific truth behind the tales.

The answer is enough for Atreus, it seems. He sniffles, glancing at the corpse again. Kratos had taught him to take the arrows from what he took down, but right now he cannot enforce that teaching, not when his son shuffles his feet indecisively. The silence stretches until Atreus backs away.

Kratos stands, finally, watching Atreus look down in shame. He slowly holds out one arm for Atreus to hide himself beside his hip. Atreus runs up and clutches his leg like a much younger child- then again, Kratos knows his son is younger than he treats him. The boy is hardy and excitable, but… it was not so long ago that the boy was confined to his bed with the sickness, wheezing instead of breathing.

The boy shivers against his side. Mimir launches into a story about Freya, in her glory days as the Vanir goddess, just to distract the boy from the thoughts the head knows he is plagued by. The story is long, and Kratos finds it to be a blessing, as Atreus is soon laughing in pride at her accomplishments.

They leave the cold, rain-and-blood scented body behind, but Kratos knows the memory will remain, and the consequences will haunt them soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: permanent hiatus


End file.
